


Now This Is Living

by AliceInKinkland



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Artificial Intelligence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Other, Rape, Tears, but really just an excuse to write self-indulgent darkfic, mind control if that's the term when you're doing it to a robot, vague pretensions of asking serious questions about consciousness, which seems to fit the spirit of Westworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 16:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInKinkland/pseuds/AliceInKinkland
Summary: It’s been almost ten years now since the last time William saw a flash of the Dolores he met his first visit. But he keeps coming back to her. If he can't uncover her hidden depths this visit, at least he can have some fun.





	Now This Is Living

“Dolores,” he says, almost lovingly, pushing open the door of the cabin and stepping back inside. “You’ll be happy to learn--well.” He pauses, runs a hand down her already tear-stained cheek. “I’m not exactly bringing you happiness here, am I?” He laughs. He saves these kinds of laughs for this place; his wife has never seen them. He starts over: “ _ I’m _ happy to  _ report _ that I have some new tricks this time.”

If she’s feeling anything besides fear, her eyes don’t show it. In a rush of frustration he hits her, a solid punch to the jaw that sends her head lolling to one side. She’s supposed to be more than afraid, dammit. She’s supposed to be curious. She’s supposed to understand.

He’s got her strung up this time, wrists tied together and rope looped over a ceiling beam in the one-room cabin. She’s at the point in her storyline where she’s shaking from fear. He’s learned to categorize the stages of her reactions by now; she rarely deviates, not when she’s in her standard loop, which is why he took her away this time, away from the barn and the house and the whole homestead, out into the desert, riding his horse and pulling her along behind him. He shot the inhabitants of the first house he found and pulled her inside and apparently all this work was for nothing because she’s still just the poor innocent rancher’s daughter tonight. He curses and punches her again.

It’s been almost ten years now since the last time he saw a flash of the Dolores he met his first visit. He hasn’t had time for as many long trips, is the problem, not now that he’s a father as well as a husband. There are different things he tries when he has more time--talking more, taking her places, mentioning the unreality of the park that hosts are programmed to ignore, torturing her over days or even weeks. He’s started giving up, moving on to other hosts, other areas.

“But I keep coming back to you, don’t I?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get your hands off me.” Her voice is steely; he likes that, even though he knows it’s part of the loop too. Her steely voice comes after the begging, which comes after the tears, which comes after the screams.

Not that there won’t be more screams later, of course.

He’s behind her now, and he runs his hands up her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing. “Don’t be like that, Dolores. That’s hardly a way to greet an old friend, is it?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Please. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“Oh? So you’re saying you’d rather I be doing this to someone else? You’re wishing this pain on another person? That doesn’t seem very good of you, Dolores. I thought you were supposed to be so good—” another squeeze “—and gentle—” another “at least when you’re asleep inside like the rest of them.”

“No,” she says, quietly, then again more firmly: “No.” 

He laughs. “That’s all you’ve got?” He’s got a lot more than that. For one thing, he’s got a knife.

It’s a switchblade, picked up from a rack as he chose his outfit, right before he donned his wide-brimmed black hat. He flicks it open now, close to her ear so she hears the deadly swish. She’s back to trembling, and he runs his free hand lightly down her side, feeling as she shakes with fear.

He moves back around to face her, slipping the knife between her cleavage and cutting open her dress and bodice. He cuts some more--the arms of the dress, the underwear--and feels his cock twitch as she kicks when he tries to pull the mass of fabric down her legs. 

Despite her kicking, he gets her clothes off, and she shivers. One thing he’ll never get tired of is the shame, born anew each time she is made to forget the indignities and trauma she suffers over and over. Sure enough, she’s blushing now, and crying but softly, all fearful pride, trying to hide it. 

He’s rock-hard now, straining the rough cotton of his trousers and underwear. You’ve gotta admire the realism of this place, the attention to detail. He’s started to associate his erections here with the texture of the period costumes. It gives his arousal a different edge, makes it feel more real somehow.

He wipes a tear from her cheek, and she bites her lip as though there’s something she can do to fight this. It’s charming every time, although it would be more charming if it were still unexpected. She’s real, he knows it, real in some essential way that even some of the people in meets in the world outside the park are lacking; but if he can’t bring that out this trip, he might as well have some fun.

He plunges a hand between her legs, and his fingers meet wetness. He scoops some up, then wipes his fingers off on her tits, leaving them glistening with evidence of her body’s unwilling reaction. “I’ve always wondered if this is part of the design,” he says, affecting a conversational tone. “And now I can know. Pity it will take some of the mystery out. Do you know the kinds of things a majority shareholder can request?” He’s toying with her still-wet breasts, pinching and twisting the nipples as she struggles not to cry out. “A full tour of the facilities, a few blind eyes during a bit of eavesdropping…” He’s torn on whether he wants to know this, really. It feels like cheating, like pulling himself out of the fantasy. But this whole place is cheating, really, and he’s pulled out of the fantasy every time he’s shot without consequence. What’s one more weighted die, when used sparingly?

He steps back, eyes her critically. “Analysis,” he says, and her face goes blank. “Why does this make you wet? Why are you sexually aroused by getting fucked against your will?”

Her voice is monotone when she responds. “A lot of guests enjoy the fact that my body produces vaginal lubrication when threatened with rape, either because it adds to the humiliation I experience, or because it allows them to believe I really want it, or simply because it facilitates smooth penetration.”

God, that’s hotter than he expected, hearing it laid out like that. “That’s enough,” he says, and she’s back, her blank expression morphing back into one of defiance. He chuckles to himself at the thought of anyone seeking mid-act absolvement for the rape they were paying good money to commit. He’s gained more respect for the simpler joys of this place since he first came, but less for those who want to play some half-assed moral ambiguity game.

He reaches into his belt for a larger knife and cuts the rope holding her arms above her head. He’s quick enough that she has no time to find her balance, and instead falls to her knees in front of him, and--well. The angle is too perfect to resist. He fumbles with the button of his pants, grips a fistful of her hair, and plunges down her throat.

She never bites, although sometimes he almost expects her to, what with all her defiant looks, not to mention all he’s seen her survive before. He guesses it’s another design feature; he’s never had a host try to harm his cock in any way, despite the fact that most hosts he fucks are not exactly consenting. 

She does gag, though, and her bound hands scrabble at his legs and shoes as he fucks her face. The futility of the gesture makes his arousal build, and after a couple of minutes he stops himself before her hot, wet mouth brings him over the edge. He’s not as young as he once was, and he wants to enjoy her more than that.

He picks her up by her hair and guides her roughly to the largest of the house’s two beds. She presses her legs together, and for a minute he does nothing to stop her, just stares down at her naked, trembling body, reflecting. He’ll take her out further next time, maybe court her some, give her a horse, not touch her at all until she wants it. He’ll read her some philosophy, ask her opinion, try not to hit her when she replies with some variant of her speech on choosing to see the beauty in the world. Or maybe he won’t bother with her next time; maybe he’ll go off in a new direction, uncover a new mystery. There’s still so much of this place to explore, and he’s only 40; no need to get restless until he’s sucked the bones dry.

When he forces her legs apart with his foot and presses the tip of his boot firmly against her cunt, he’s no longer frustrated, no longer angry. It is what it is, and tonight she’s like the others, and maybe he’s punishing her for it but maybe he’s also just enjoying himself, taking advantage of the park’s attractions the way he pays to do. He grinds his boot against her folds and she holds still, her wetness nonetheless rubbing off on the dirty leather.

Her stillness reminds him of what he had wanted to try, however. He kneels between her legs on the bed and spreads her legs wider, his fingers digging into her thighs, then utters to other phrase he had learned from his private tour of the Delos facilities. “Freeze all motor functions,” he says when her legs are sufficiently parted, her cunt sufficiently exposed, and then he enters her, his movements feeling more urgent, more alive, in contrast to her utter stillness.

It’s like fucking a doll, which wouldn’t be that interesting, except he knows this doll has something resembling a consciousness, knows this doll is still feeling pain and terror but now can do nothing whatsoever about it. It’s the most secure form of bondage he can imagine, and just that thought alone carries him for a minute or so of hard, insistent thrusting. He’s fucked hosts after killing them before, and this is a bit like that too, but this time with the knowledge that the torture can still continue afterwards.

“That’s enough,” he says, and now she screams, something wordless and instinctual, if she has what could be called instincts. He lets her, not letting up his punishing rhythm, enjoying the pressure on his cock as she begins to fight back once again. She’s a fighter all the way through, it’s part of her loop, and he loves it, loves that guests get more than they bargained for when they decide to indulge themselves with her. The park is full of surprises, and he likes the notion that she is one for everyone, even in some small way.

“God, I love you,” he breathes, and that makes her pause, and start to cry in earnest. He strokes her cheek. “Just now, do you know what happened? When you couldn’t move?”

Her face furrows in confusion. “Why do you care? Just--if you’re gonna--just get it over with. Please.” 

Usually he loves this part, the part where her pride slips down a notch, the part some shallow first-timer guests probably think means they’ve broken her spirit. This time, though, it’s not what he wants to hear.

He slaps her, his cock twitching inside of her as she flinches. “I stopped you from moving. I froze your body. What did that feel like?”

“I’m not--I don’t know what you’re talking about! I think--I think that happens to people when they’re scared. Or maybe--am I in a dream? God, I hope I’m dreaming.”

This is how you could really drive a host mad, he realizes. Maybe he’ll try it sometime, starting with someone who isn’t Dolores. For now, however, he lets it drop, pulling out of her and moving to straddle her face, his hand working his cock as he stares down at her.

He wonders sometimes, about all this attention to historical detail, down to the underclothes and abundant body hair, coupled with all the guests who come in with their brains stuffed full of modern porn images. What did sex look like, really, in the so-called wild west? There have always been deviants, sure, but were they always like him?

In a sudden flash of sadistic brilliance, he grabs her bound hands and guides them until she’s gripping his cock. She knows what to do now--innocence and defiance both stripped away, right on schedule. She’s crying still, can’t seem to stop, but she moves her hand in a fast and steady rhythm, jerking him off as he kneels above her, a participant in her own debasement to a degree she wasn’t before.

It doesn’t take long for her to bring him over the edge, his cum coating her face in hot, sticky spurts, mixing with her tears. 

He pushes her hands off his softening, sensitive cock and gets up, tucking in his shirt, buttoning up his pants. She just lies there, and he knows this part of the loop too--the shock which will quickly wear off into covert plotting, trying to get her bearings, checking the room for exits.

He preempts her, however, grabbing the extra rope from the floor and fastening her securely to the bed, wrists together above her head, ankles and thighs spread wide. He’ll leave her like that, and leave himself with one last fantasy as he rides away, back to the train that will return him to the mundanity of the world: that whichever low-level Delos tech who comes to retrieve her will look at her, served up on a platter like that, and decide, after some furtive looks and soul-searching, that her beauty and her helplessness is crying out to be used one more time before she’s hosed down and memory-wiped and whatever else it is they do. Yes, he likes that idea a lot--the notion that he’s made it so easy for some stranger to hurt her without consequence, the notion that he’s placing that kind of temptation in from of someone, the hope of fucking with the head of an actual human being. He smiles to himself.

Outside, he gets back on his horse, his still-sensitive cock chafing as he mounts the saddle. Maybe next time, or the time after that, when he picks up the can for Dolores back in Sweetwater, she’ll look at him, and flinch, and he’ll know that she remembers.


End file.
